


Balance Point

by homsantoft (tofsla)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 16:08:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7112902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofsla/pseuds/homsantoft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Western Approach treats the Bull's skin unkindly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Balance Point

**Author's Note:**

> prompt ficlet for lildevilbutt: the bull gets badly sunburnt.

In the Western Approach, the sun burns down upon them. No space for frivolous use of magic here, between overly enthusiastic wildlife, darkspawn and his good old friends the Venatori, and so Dorian grits his teeth and bears it, the dry heat chafing at his skin, parching his tongue. 

"Guess you're happy now," Sera says, squinting angrily against the sun with a hand shading her eyes. "Sodding hot, right?" She's pink all over, heat and sunburn. Ready to go off. She pinned a Venatori to a wall with six precise arrows earlier, and Dorian was only sorry that it wasn't one of his so-called former friends.

"I resent the implication that I am ever happy to be in contact with this much sand and nature," Dorian says. Speaking stretches at the dry corners of his lips. "And also, there will be nothing left of my skin to crack soon. Give me a good monsoon, I beg of you. We Northern types are not made for deserts." 

The Iron Bull grunts agreement.

"Desserts though," Sera says. "Custard and bananas!"

"Ugh," Dorian says fondly, and Sera smirks up at him.

The Bull laughs, but it's a little on the halfhearted side. Uncharacteristic.

There's a golden tone to the Bull's skin, heavy across the back of his shoulders and down the outsides of his arms, high on his cheeks and the line of his nose. It's been deepening steadily all day, startling against the grey.

And then night falls, of course. Not the quick slide from day to night that Qarinus or Minrathous know; they are in the South, despite it all. But the slow sunset takes the heat of the day with it all the same, leaves them in unforgivingly cold shadow.

"Time to find the camp," Adaar says. She's looking a little bronze around the shoulders herself, although the tone of her skin is warmer to begin with, the effect less startling. "Shit, I've got sand in everything."

"I'll help you find it all," Sera says, sniggers. Sighs. "Yeah, me too."

The Bull is silent.

He's silent while they check in with the scouts; while Adaar makes arrangements for tent spaces. He's silent as they lay out their bedrolls, and when Dorian goes to lie down, he stays kneeling, head bowed to keep his horns from the canvas.

Behind the nearest of the partitions that divides the large tent into small semi-private segments, someone is snoring.

"Bull?" Dorian asks; reaches for him.

But the Bull flinches away before Dorian's hand ever touches his skin.

Dorian is frozen for an uncertain moment, hand raised between them, a shock of hurt finding a space between his ribs through which to press.

The Bull is radiating heat.

"Sorry," he says. "I just—ugh."

"You're burnt," Dorian says, in sudden understanding, and oh, it shouldn't bring with it such a flood of relief. "You might have said something."

Hushed voices.

The Bull shrugs, winces. "Yeah? And you'd have done what, exactly? Spared your magic from killing that damn giant to make sure my skin was alright, like I'm some Imekari?"

"Not tried to touch you, for one," Dorian says, exasperated; but he knows the Bull well enough to see this for what it is, an anger at perceived personal weakness where the Bull would not think to call it weakness in anything else, frustration at inconvenience. "I could spare you a little magic now. How bad is it? Be honest."

"Pretty bad," the Bull says, reluctance obvious in the hunch of his shoulders, the way he has to close his eye to even say those first words. "Not used to the sun like this. Back home—back on Par Vollen, there's this paste they mix in with the vitaar. Stops this shit happening. I can mix up vitaar, but fuck if I know what's in that stuff. Didn't even think about it."

"Turn," Dorian says. "Let me see your back."

The Bull shuffles around obediently, and that as much as anything else lets Dorian know that he really is suffering quite terribly. This level of compliance outside of bed is generally reserved entirely for Madame de Fer.

No, it doesn't look good, even with Dorian's limited knowledge of Qunari. He knows the Bull's skin well enough, and knows the unevenness and fierce irritation of a truly vicious burn. It will blister, if left, and that can only be a bad thing for all of them. Infection, limited mobility—no, it won't do. 

He sighs.

"You are quite the most stubborn fool, I hope you realise. Let me fetch something from my pack. You stay exactly where you are."

One of his final Northern luxuries, in truth, this: a jar of thick paste, cooling and soothing. Neither he nor Felix ever had the knack for healing spells, and so when he was badly burnt fighting demons outside Redcliffe before the Inquisition had put in even their first appearance, he had been smuggled an ameliorating gift in lieu of an instant cure.

He has hoarded it jealously, even from himself; weighed the severity of each injury against the quantity left, measured the time remaining until this last little piece of Felix' thoughtfulness is lost to him. 

Little enough of it remains now, all the same.

He did not hesitate to think of using it on the Bull. A man who he has fucked a half-dozen times.

Practicality. Yes: practicality, only. They must all be at full strength.

Be happy, Dorian, Felix said. They won't hate that part of you here. You should find someone.

Oh, yes, Dorian laughed. Some great Fereldan bear of a man to keep me warm, like a living rug.

And why not?

Felix always believed in—well, in Dorian's worth. Be plain about it. He always believed in Dorian's worth, even when Dorian sought, actively, to debase himself. If his desires could not be acceptable, then let his acts be scandalous also.

Be happy, Felix said, over and over. No, I don't mean pretend. Find a space that welcomes you. It'll help. 

And here Dorian is, with the Bull, in an uneasy alliance. Will it last?

Does he want it to?

They might just as easily tear each other apart.

He says, "Allow me."

The Bull hisses at the first careful touch of Dorian's hands against his shoulders, sighs at the coolness of them, paste and ice, spread slowly across his skin. Long strokes, neck to shoulders, down the arms.

"Turn," Dorian says. Looks up into the Bull's great rough face, the craggy lines of it, the scars. 

Reaches up.

Touches it.

The Bull is studying him, and Dorian doesn't understand his expression, furrowed here, soft there. 

Can only steady himself by force of will, and drag his fingers terribly, terribly intimately across the Bull's skin.

He has never touched the Bull's face when they haven't been fucking.

He cups it now. Thumb drawn down the line of his nose. 

"Damn," the Bull says. "That's some magic lotion you've got there."

"Mm," Dorian says. "Anywhere else?"

The base of the horns. 

Two nights ago, in the keep, with a private room, Dorian held onto the Bull's horns. Twisted his hands around them, dug his nails into this same sensitive skin; his back to the Bull's chest, the Bull's cock huge inside him. Half a dozen drawn out fucks, and the first time he'd taken the Bull's cock entire all the same, huge as the Bull was. Had taken half, yes. Had held the Bull down and fucked him, once, memorably—heat still at that thought alone. Had lain on his stomach with the Bull's slick cock sliding between his thighs, pressing up against his balls, the head sliding against Dorian's own cock, obscene and perfect.

But this—

He had needed, needed, something to cling to. Had writhed against the Bull, cried out again and again, open mouthed, almost silent, ah—ah—oh— 

He had not been gentle. Had felt too exposed for gentleness.

The marks remain, although the skin is burnt.

He is gentle now. As best he can.

"That's better," the Bull says. Slumps, the tension easing from his shoulders. "Thanks. You're a good guy."

Leans his forehead forward against Dorian's, a careful touch as between comrades or lovers.

And which is it they are?


End file.
